She turned for the door. And panic flared hot and sharp in his chest.
“I expect,” she said over her shoulder, an annoyingly flippant edge to her voice, “that in the cold light of day, you’ll regret ever having said this.”
His hands curled into fists. “No, I shall not regret it!” he shot back, straightening. Damn it, he was digging in.
Clare sighed again, heavier this time, and opened the door. “Then you leave me no choice.”
A sick feeling coiled in his gut.
“I am not going back to the Onyx Club,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I shall not attend another one of these dinners.”
His stomach dropped.
“I am making my arrangements,” she finished, turning and looking him straight in the eye. “And I am leaving for France.”
And then she was gone.
Ash stared after her, heart pounding, breath unsteady, hands shaking at his sides. His world had just been shaken.
And for the first time in his entire life, he had no idea what the hell to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Clare dipped the quill into the inkwell, then pressed it to the crisp vellum. The letter to the innkeeper along the shores of Calais had to be brief—just enough to confirm her arrival, nothing that could be traced back to her if someone got curious.
She’d heard about the place from one of the servants, made discreet inquiries, exchanged coin for whispered directions. She couldn’t afford too many detailed plans—couldn’t risk anyone catching wind of what she was about to do. Some things would have to fall into place as she went.
The mail coach out of London would be simple enough. Then more coaches to the coast, which would be easy enough. A berth on a ship heading to Calais—not a problem.
Her maid had agreed to come with her. Turns outshedidn’t enjoy living in near exile in the country under Mama’s watchful gaze any more than Clare did.
Everything was in motion. Everything was almost done.
So why did she feel like she was coming apart at the seams?
She exhaled slowly, sealing the letter. Next, she wrote her good-byes.
One for Meredith—brief, apologetic, loving. A promise not to worry, though she knew her friend would. Meredith had a baby to think about. That had to come first. Clare just hoped, one day, after the child was born, that Meredith and Griffin might find their way to France for a visit. The thought was the only thing keeping her afloat at the moment.
Another letter for her mother—colder, more final, indicating that she would not return.
No doubt, once the initial shock wore off, Mama would be relieved. Keeping a ruined daughter under her roof had not been ideal. This way, Clare would be giving her mother her freedom as well. And wasn’tthatwhat everyone wanted?
She swallowed against the lump rising in her throat.
The hardest part—the part she hadn’t yet been able to face—was the last letter.
To Ash.
She had tried. She had started it half a dozen times, but every time, the words felt wrong. Too formal, too detached, too ridiculous.
She’d scratched through every pathetic attempt, finally giving up and tossing the damned vellum into the fire.
She didn’t particularly like how they had ended things, but there was nothing left to say. Nothing that wouldn’t make leaving harder than it already was. No doubt by now, Ash had realized she had been right all along.
She had saved him from himself—from whatever strange, impulsive madness had made him offer marriage in the first place. He just didn’t know it yet.
Oh, how she had wanted to believe him.
